Silence
by WargishBoromirFan
Summary: 2988, Third Age: Imrahil finds the quiet of the White City disturbing. Part of the DenFin Files.


A/N: Tolkien's characters, though Ainaelin's name is my invention. Written for the 50lyricsfanfic challenge, specifically the prompt "_I must confess, that my loneliness is killing me now; don't you know I still believe, that you will be here_." (Heck, I even managed a Britney Spears lyric and Denethor Hurin in the same prompt with minimal crack and brain 'splodey.)

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What bothered Imrahil the most had been the silence. From the first time he had accompanied his father to the capitol, Minas Tirith had seemed so much quieter than Dol Amroth. Still, this was out of keeping with the city he knew. Even the bustling shops of the first few gates were subdued, hushed. The stark contrast of black on white made the stone citadel somber and empty-looking, with streets that appeared more narrow and twisting than they did when they were full of people jostling one another in the course of daily activities.

There were still people there, of course. Occasionally, a child would run up to get a better look at him and his horse, waving and asking questions. Imrahil smiled gently at them, but all the same, a black-clad mother or elder sibling would swoop down upon the impertinent youngling and urge them to be quiet. Some explained why, but most just gave him a single sympathetic look and told the child that it was necessary.

Imrahil wasn't so sure about that. Yes, hearing the explanations prodded the unhealed wound back open, but this silence hardly healed it. He wanted to see those children, to hear their laughter, to answer questions about his horse, if only to distract himself from his reasons for coming.

He wondered again, if it would have been better to wait until his wife and son could accompany him upon the journey; knowing that Finny wouldn't be there to greet him made him worry even more for Ainaelin, who would be on the unguarded road with a newly weaned babe. Still, she was hardly riding alone. The Princess of Dol Amroth traveled with a caravan of well-wishers and guardians, but a larger group always moved slower. And in this silent city, two young boys had been left suddenly motherless. Although Imrahil missed his own son, he could hardly leave his nephews alone in this state.

Then, there was the matter of their father. If Imrahil knew his brother-in-law at all, Denethor would have remained as mute and withdrawn as his city. The Steward was ever unwilling to show the slightest hint of weakness, even when he desperately needed to. Finduilas had helped her husband relax his guard somewhat, but she would not be able to help this time. Well, Imrahil had possessed the right combination of pride, candor, and sheer bluntness necessary for pointing out his sisters' and brother-in-law's occasional bouts of self-inflicted blindness before. Hopefully, he could do it again, - before he was forced to admit that he himself shared in that blindness, this time.

He couldn't say it to himself, yet. To admit the reasons why he had come, why the mothers called their children away from him, why the White City was darkened and quiet was more than he could handle at this point. Once he was certain Denethor and his sons were going to be all right, then Imrahil could allow himself to seek his own comfort. But the Prince of Dol Amroth would not allow himself to be rendered useless when his liege lord, his sister's husband, and dared he say it, his friend was a walking wreck thinly disguised as a busy, brooding man. Not when the little ones would need loving, familiar faces.

Finduilas had often accused her little brother of spoiling her children. She had plotted ways to return the favor ever since news of Ainaelin's pregnancy had reached Minas Tirith, but Imrahil still considered himself triumphant in that game. After all, someone had to teach Boromir and Faramir about Beruthiel and Turin and Eol. Denethor had always been much too refined for such stories; and Finny… Well, considering how these last five years had been on Finduilas, this shouldn't be a surprise.

It didn't make it any easier to see it, though. Denethor was dressed in sober black robes of office when he invited Imrahil into the formal reception hall. That, of course, was business as usual, but it was unnerving to see how well Denethor's regular modis operandi blended with this fueneral atmosphere. "My Lord Steward," Imrahil greeted him automatically, bowing to the elder man's facade of normality.

"Prince Imrahil." Denethor nodded once in return, but remained otherwise motionless upon his austere chair at the foot of the empty throne. Another chair at his side, padded and sized for a woman's comfort, seemed even more abandoned than the seat of kings that had been unoccupied for over twenty generations. "Lady Ainaelin and Elphir are not with you?" It was difficult to say just what that tone of voice signified, but Denethor's voice was not completely frosted over.

"They're coming soon, but I needed to see Finny– before they got here." Imrahil looked away. The years had only sharpened Denethor's gaze, and Imrahil was no longer the Morgoth-may-care teenager that didn't give a damn for who knew his frank opinion.

"Don't we all?" the Steward drawled. "She makes her way to Silent Street on the morrow; we must cool our heels until then."

"She always hates being rushed," Imrahil murmured to himself, the corner of his mouth twitching despite his better judgement. "But that leaves you and your boys rather out in the cold, doesn't it?" He crossed his arms, only daring to resume eye contact once he knew his hands were not visibly shaking.

Denethor seemed to favor the armrest-gripping strategy, although Imrahil could watch the tendons in the older man's hands tense and relax fairly clearly. "There are reminders enough."

"But no Finduilas." Moving on impulse, the Dol Amrothi reached for his brother-in-law's arm. "How are the boys?" Imrahil looked more closely at Denethor, feeling the forearm twist slightly beneath his hand. The Steward had never been much of one for interpersonal contact; he was attempting to remove the younger man's hand as thoughtlessly as Imrahil had placed it there, though he had not yet jerked away. Beneath those flinty eyes, Imrahil recognized the dark circles of sleeplessness. The Dol Amrothi was willing to admit that his memory could be faulty, but the silver streaks in Denethor's black hair seemed more ubiquitous than the last time he had visited Minas Tirith.

"Boromir begins to understand, but Faramir still looks for her in the gardens and the balconies that face west. I don't know how I'd handle his questions without Boromir. I do not wish to talk about it, honestly." Denethor leaned back, at last relaxing his grip upon the chair arm and freeing himself from his brother-in-law's hand.

"That I understand," Imrahil replied softly, nodding in agreement.


End file.
